Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
My father pulls up at the front of the house to drop me off. He has a business meeting to attend with my aunt, so I lean over to give him a hug and thank him for picking me up before I get out of the car.
I once asked what he thought of my mother’s singing, and his answer stuck with me. “It’s like heaven and hell all mixed into one. It can soothe you, but at the same time, it can move you.”
I always dreamed of having a love like theirs. If there’s one thing in this life I know I want someday, it’s that. But lately, I’ve been thinking about it a little more, and I feel like I’m in foreign territory.
The butler comes to collect my bags and welcomes me home. “Welcome back, Miss Ivanov. A package came for you. It’s on your bed.”
“A package?” I ask.
“Yes. It appears to be from a gallery. Don’t worry. We’ve checked to make sure it’s safe.”
I sigh, not because they opened it but why it’s necessary. My father put in place a process to ensure no kind of weapons, like bombs or poisons, would reach the members of our family. See, not entirely normal.
I walk into my room and see a medium-sized box on my bed. I don’t recall purchasing anything or being offered any gifts, but things are sent to me from time to time. A box cutter is waiting for me, and before I slice it open, I pluck the white note from atop the box.
These are as beautiful as their creator.
But my shelves are full.
xx
A bad feeling begins to swirl in my stomach as I slice open the box and pull the bubble wrap away. My teeth grind as I look down at the collection of my glass statues.
He sent them back to me?
How fucking dare he send them back to me!
He had the cheek to send them back to me, convinced with the absolute certainty that I created them. Not only that, but he’s daring enough to send them to my home. Is this guy for fucking real? Does he not fear me even in the slightest?
Does he not appreciate the time I put into creating these? Granted, initially, they weren’t for him. But as of late, I’ve kept him in mind as I methodically create each and every piece. I fucking sweated for hours to make these, and he thinks they’re worth so little that he can just ship them in a box with fucking bubble wrap?!
Fucking bubble wrap?!
I want to grind them into dust. Then, it occurs to me that he might be baiting. I sit at the edge of my bed, biting the edge of my nail. If I were Braxton Hero, what would I be thinking? Why would I be doing this?
A lethal hum rises under my skin.
I hate him so fucking much.
Then, an idea sparks in my mind. It’s risky. It could backfire.
But Braxton and I are far from playing a child’s game.
I grab my phone and send a message to Hawke to schedule another shooting practice.
I tape up the box, fucking furious.
The sooner I put a bullet in his head, the better.
“Miss Ivanov, your dress for this evening is ready. Where are you going?” our butler asks as I hurry out, carrying the box that’s most likely half my fucking weight, with the determination of a woman on a warpath.
“I’ll be back soon. I’m just making a quick delivery to a friend. I won’t be late,” I call out to him.
I can tell he’s nervous. Most likely because my agent, Candice, allegedly lost her mind at him once when I was late for an event. I don’t intend on getting anyone in trouble today.
Except a certain asshole who needs a taste of his own medicine.
CHAPTER 27
Hope
“Motherfucker thinks he’s funny,” I grumble as I glance over at the passenger seat where I’ve placed the box. “He just assumes it’s me. Just assumes I’m the one with the twisted and fucked-up mind.”
My hands grip the steering wheel tightly. I don’t know why this feels like a rejection, but it does, and I can’t fucking stand it. Not only does he have the balls to have this delivered to my home, but he also sent every fucking piece back. They can’t all be shit!
When I drive by his apartment building, I notice his car isn’t where it’s usually parked. I could dump it at his door, cameras be damned. I want him to know I returned them. But even better, I decide to go to the next place I think I can find him.
He wants to come to my safe place, then I’ll fucking go to his.
The police station is only a ten-minute drive from his apartment—naturally, he wants to be close to work. I’m smiling when I spot his car, barely hitting the brakes as I drive straight into the back of his car.